Useless Folsense
by Nightfancy
Summary: After being left behind for what feels like the millionth time, Flora wonders how useful she really is. Spoilers for Game 1. No pairings.


**A/N:** _Curious Village spoilers abound and also, this has literally nothing to do with Folsense—I just liked how it sounded. (And also, for a bit of trivia regarding this: 'Folsense' was so named because it sounds like 'False Sense', or at least, that's what I've heard. I heavily relied on that rumor/fact while naming this piece, I freely admit it). I think the reasons behind writing this have much to do with the belief that some fans harbor regarding Flora's "uselessness" and I don't know why, but it **really** bothers me. Probably because I harbor this crazy belief of my own; namely that no one is useless, not even Flora. ;) Dedicated to anyone out there who has ever felt worthless—because if Flora isn't, then you're definitely not. ღ I'll shut up now so you can read._

It began much as any day before it. Well, the past few near-duplicate days anyway. It should not have surprised her to find that she had been left behind—again—with the old (and boring) property caretaker Ethel, but it had. She was angry at herself for expecting anything more. It had gone on like this for over a year now, but she usually had a little waning before the professor and his apprentice left on one of their adventures. And that small warning, that small, imprecise window, usually afforded her the opportunity to tag along undetected…at least for a little while.

But luck had not been on her side this time—the professor seemed to have snuck away in the night if the lack of his body were anything to go by. That and several of his identical suits missing along with Luke's armoire nearly cleaned out when before she could have sworn the drawers were nearly overflowing…

How could the professor _do_ this to her? She had so much to offer—she wasn't too shabby at solving the puzzles they faced and she could make enough cucumber sandwiches to make anyone throw up…and neither were easy feats. Luke could solve puzzles too, but he couldn't make those sandwiches! _No one_ could make them quite like her—or at least, that's what the professor had said when she had once unconditionally believed every word he ever said…but maybe he was just being polite; he had a knack for behaving that way after all. Maybe he really didn't mean it and at heart, really _hated_ those cucumber sandwiches. Such a ludicrous thought could be attributed to how he never asked her to make them anymore…and now how he just snuck away in the night like that…without even telling her goodbye. Maybe he didn't care about her like she once thought he did. Maybe…

But that was impossible, wasn't it? He had saved her from her tower in St. Mystere. He had solved all of those puzzles her father had set so many years before—and not one person had ever come so close. At the time, she had caught herself hoping he would succeed, even though she had told herself to not to get too attached to the people who would come to her little village; just in case they gave up. Many had. The professor was the only one who had persevered like that; the only one, she came to realize, who even had a chance at succeeding where others had failed. And he just seemed…so…nice. He had reminded her of her father.

But the isolation the professor freed her from only resulted in more isolation. Instead of a village full of people she loved (though she knew a long time ago that they were not real, she loved them still), she was relocated to a strange town with a strange name with even stranger people—of whom she didn't even know their faces, let alone their names. But it didn't stop her from wishing she did. At least she could go out whenever she pleased while in her village—but the people were designed to never hurt her there. Still…waiting by her place next to the window (and fruitlessly attempting to teach herself how to properly embroider—if only to prove to both herself and the professor that making cucumber sandwiches was _not_ the only useful thing she could do—) she began to wonder if he'd ever return. What if mystery after mystery affronted him? Though Flora had not known her adoptive father long (though the term 'father' was only on the paperwork), she was well-aware of his penchant for puzzles—it bordered on downright obsession…and with this in mind, she considered upon the thing she feared the very most—what if he loved his puzzles more than her? What if he had solved the puzzles laid out in St. Mystere simply because he couldn't help himself? What if he had taken her in only out of a sense of gentlemanly obligation or duty, and not because he had ever cared about her?

Flora stilled her hands, laying them unmoving in her lap as she stared at the quaint beginnings of a rose—it looked more like a weed. She could feel her eyes filling with tears, but maybe if she didn't make any noise, Ethel wouldn't have to scold her for her 'nonsensical' emotions. Flora knew that perhaps her worries were unfounded, but she held a sneaking suspicion that Ethel just had _no idea_ how she felt. And she knew it wasn't very ladylike to assume anything she did not know for certainty, but…she knew without a doubt that Ethel would dismiss her fears as 'poppycock' and resume her reading like nothing had even occurred—like Flora was foolish, like so many others thought. While inside she'd be shattering into ten million pieces, Ethel would finally reach the point in her novel where the young gentleman saved the girl from a life of endless monotony by finally agreeing to marry her, painfully unaware of the paradox happening right in front of her.

No. It was better to just keep all the hurt inside. No one could judge her for pain they could not see.

Just when Flora really thought she was going to fall apart in her silent despair, Ethel sent her up to bed. Flora frowned, but went just as she was told. It was barely seven-thirty, and the sun was just beginning to disappear in the sky. Flora resumed her place, but this time in front of her bedroom window, keeping a keen eye out for any sign of the Laytonmobile. She had never been more grateful for the lock that had been installed on her door long before she had come to stay—she could watch all night undisturbed if she wished, her unfinished embroidery sitting her lap like before, still looking like a weed and having no command over her attention. Though she was a bit fearful of the answers the professor would give her upon his return (according to Ethel his return was _supposed_ to be tonight), it didn't stop her from watching. Perhaps she did only to appease herself—to make sure that he would come back…it wasn't too absurd of a hope, was it? It wasn't like her poor father who no longer had the ability to return home to her—the professor could still come back…the professor _would_ still come back, she angrily corrected herself. Even if she had no claim over his attention like the unfinished embroidery held no claim over hers, this was his home and…he probably had enough money to stay at a hotel every night for the rest of his life. But she was trying not to think about that, she angrily reminded herself. He usually kept his promises and only broke them under the most severe of circumstances. How could she explain _any_ of this to him like a lady would if she felt so resentful over his treatment of her? It wasn't ladylike to have her feelings get the best of her. Reluctantly, she tried to calm herself down and turned back to her embroidery, but it did not halt the incessant, irritated glances out the window.

A sharp clatter startled her some time later, and Flora was shocked to find herself seated before the window in almost complete darkness. She must've dozed off, yet another thing that should not have surprised her. When all of her anger was burned out, she usually found herself succumbing to intense, acute exhaustion.

She stretched and rubbed her eyes, frowning at the state of her dress and the thread she had been working with trailing all over the floor. She should've changed and put her things away before beginning her watch—the professor was probably back now; she held a small bedside clock to the window and read an approximate 11:42 by moonlight. The professor usually made it a habit to return by midnight if he had Luke with him…but if he was already here, Flora would've missed her chance. Somehow this felt like a conversation that wouldn't happen the following morning. And what if he left again before she even woke up? It really bothered her to think that she would miss him again when he could've just been right down the hall without her knowing.

But before she could really contemplate the unfairness that comprised her life, she heard something most unmistakable—a car coming up the drive. She hastily finished changing into her proper night things in the dark and scrambled toward the window, and sure enough, the Laytonmobile was creeping toward the house.

Flora debated a moment on what to do, slight inexplicable nervousness wracking her—it was _just_ the professor…Luke probably fell asleep on the way home. There was no need to be nervous! But maybe it was because she should've been asleep already. Flora scrambled once more, but this time to her bedroom door, quickly unlocking it and waiting for the apology that would surely come.

She jumped into bed and not two seconds later, heard movement downstairs announcing the long-awaited arrival of the professor and his apprentice. If she listened hard enough, she imagined she could hear a low rumble as the professor's voice, seeming to penetrate every square inch of the small, but rather tall flat. She couldn't of course—they were much too far away from each other, but she could still imagine.

When she didn't hear the stairs creak after a few moments, she imagined the professor thanking Ethel in that gentlemanly way of his and offering to accompany her on the short walk to her home. Ethel at first would refuse him before grudgingly giving in. He'd politely tip his hat, offer his arm, and inform Luke—provided he was still awake—that he'd be back in just a few minutes. Luke would nod sleepily, yawning and rubbing his eyes before he would blearily climb the stairs…

And just as Flora imagined this part, she heard the distinctive creak of the stairs like she had been waiting for, signaling that someone was ascending them and—_yes!_—it was Luke. He passed by her door and kept going, presumably toward the direction of his own room.

It was probably fifteen minutes later (she wasn't sure—did she doze off again?) when she heard what she thought was the front door opening downstairs once more, indicating the professor had finally returned home. Within moments, she heard movement on the stairs again and in a flash, her door had opened, illuminating the professor from behind and darkening his front.

"Flora?" he called quietly. She wanted to pretend to stir, but he probably already knew she was awake.

"Yes, Professor?" she answered just as softly, sitting up as he approached her bed, her eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness in the hallway. She felt more than saw the professor lower himself on the edge of her bed.

"I'm sorry," he began regretfully. "Did we wake you? I told Luke to be quiet…"

"No," she said quickly. "No, I was already awake. I…I sort of woke myself." Her eyes drifted toward her abandoned chair and the beginnings of her embroidered rose on the floor—it was facedown and probably didn't even resemble a weed now.

Layton probably followed her gaze. "Ah. I see." When he didn't say anything more, Flora contented herself with looking at her bedsheets, tracing the flowers with her finger and trying to ignore the professor sitting there. He was probably tired. Despite his frequent late nights, he was still something of an early riser and despite her earlier intentions, Flora just wished he would leave. She couldn't…

"I was surprised when Ethel informed me you went to bed without complaint," he said somewhat randomly. Flora wondered what on earth he was getting at. "It seems she had been expecting some resistance on your part."

It was true—the professor had never required a bedtime for her and Ethel did annoy her sometimes with her rules… "I just thought it'd be best…to listen to her," she answered cautiously, shrugging as she did so. There was _no_ way he was going to figure this out…

"Hmm, I don't recall you saying this the last time I asked Ethel to look after you."

But Flora was getting tired of his probing. "Well," she sniffed bitterly, "maybe I've grown up some. Did that ever occur to you, Professor?"

She watched as he visibly recoiled and felt horrible for it. But she was left behind _every. time._

"Flora," he tried more gently, "I'm very sorry for such an abrupt departure, but it was a bit of an emergency and…"

"You still could've taken me along," she huffed, her voice growing a bit louder in her accusation. "You must've left in the middle of the night and if so…you had to have woken Luke. Why didn't you wake me too? I could've come along. I could've helped. I could've…"

She paused to take a deep breath. "I could've made you _sandwiches_, Professor! I could've solved puzzles! I know Luke can't solve all of them. I could've helped you. How can I—" she broke off and continued in the smallest of voices, "How can I help you if you never bring me along? Am I _any_ use to you at _all_, Professor?"

She was surprised to find that she was crying. This wasn't a new fear; why was she crying? She was more surprised when she felt the professor wiping her tears away with the tips of his fingers.

"_Flora,"_ he repeated. She wondered if her silent tears disturbed him. She was usually much more vocal than this. Every time a new tear would appear, it was gently rubbed away. "Do you know why I adopted you?"

His voice seemed to have a strange quality to it—it sort of reminded her of one of the first times they met in St. Mystere, where he had called out to her to wait. She hadn't heeded his request of course, but she had been so close. Then, it had sounded like he had no hope of ever finding her again if she disappeared. It had been so gratifying then; thinking that perhaps her disguise was actually working, that she could completely disappear and never be found, but now…now it was just painful thinking that way. She _wanted_ to be found. She _wanted_ someone to love her. The thought that it might never happen only made her eyes fill more.

"No," she finally whispered, sniffing as her nose began to run. The professor fished in his pockets for a moment and produced a handkerchief—one that she immediately recognized by touch. She had made it for him shortly after her adoption had been finalized. Embroidering the 'HL' in the corner hadn't been very hard …much easier than a stupid rose on a blank canvas anyway. She wrote letters all the time. A cursive 'H' and 'L' was no problem.

"Blow, my dear," he encouraged gently, but still she hesitated.

"But this is yours and…" she blushed, her eyes filling again. "This will be _really_ gross once I'm done with it."

"Nothing a quick wash can't cure. You made it for me to use, didn't you? It if was intended for display, then I've been misusing it this entire time." And with that lighthearted comment, Flora blew her nose all over that beautiful red handkerchief.

"There, better now?" he asked. Flora nodded mutely, beyond words before she tried to give it back to him.

"I think you had better hold on to it for a moment, my dear," he said ruefully. After a few moments, he continued speaking. "As I was saying, this isn't something I've told you yet but…now seems as good a time as any. I knew what the true treasure of St. Mystere was long before I indicated to Luke that I had solved it."

Flora frowned and broke her silence with a disappointed, "Well…that's not so unique at all."

The professor smiled for the first time that night. "Haha, perhaps that's not so out of the ordinary. Patience, my dear, you will know in time. I had already suspected that what everyone was calling 'the golden apple' wasn't what it appeared, but it wasn't until after you left Luke and myself with a clue leading to the carnival that I realized what the true treasure was."

If he was waiting for a reaction from Flora, he wasn't getting one. How quickly he solved the puzzle was extraordinary, but not for someone like him. There had to be something else tied to this 'confession'—the reason why he never brought her anywhere or the reason he adopted her in the first place. This explanation so far solved neither.

"I don't leave you behind because I believe you useless, Flora." It seemed to cause him pain to even say it. Flora hung her head; she shouldn't have lost her temper like that. She jumped when Layton's hand reached beneath her chin, silently encouraging her to look in his direction. "But I understand how you may have come to that conclusion. Indeed, I don't bring say, a ladle with me on an adventure because I realize I don't need it—but simply because I do not need it in that moment does not diminish its value when cooking soup—it serves a certain function; the reason it was made in the first place. However," Flora looked at him, unshed tears shining in her eyes as he softly added, "it is an _entirely_ different matter with you, my love. Your father understood this concept very well—he created an entire village to house and protect you because he believed there was no greater treasure worth protecting. I am only trying to do the same. Just as I would not carry a spare hat on an adventure when its use was not warranted, I would not bring you along."

Flora was _really_ crying now and was surprised when she had to use the professor's handkerchief just as he had predicted. "It has nothing to do with favoring Luke—nor does it have anything to do with believing your talents are useless. My dear…" the handkerchief was soaking wet now, but it didn't matter; the professor was gently wiping her tears with his fingers again. "I find you precious…beyond measure."

She could no longer bear it and launched herself into his arms, almost as though he had freed her from St. Mystere all over again. She was still crying, but that didn't matter either—the professor loved her, and that was all that did.


End file.
